


Fearless

by twistedthicket1



Series: Hum like a Honey Bee [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Angst, Fluff, M/M, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-12
Updated: 2013-06-12
Packaged: 2017-12-14 19:33:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,676
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/840569
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/twistedthicket1/pseuds/twistedthicket1
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John and Sherlock have a close call. One that the Detective is having trouble handling.</p><p>Prompt word: fear.</p><p> </p><p>Kudos and comments are welcome! so are prompts! :3</p>
            </blockquote>





	Fearless

 

 

Sherlock Holmes isn't afraid of anything.

At least, one would normally look at him and assume this fact, usually because when people see him, he is almost always at least partially coated in bodily fluids.

Dripping some kind of goo.

Blood.

Vomit.

Pieces of organs that have exploded on his face and hands, tinting his pale skin vivid red like the inside of a rose. They see him effortlessly leap over roofs and tumble after the villains of London, dark coat a better cape than any comic-book hero's as it flares out behind him.

He can interrogate wanted criminals without batting an eyelash.

Can deduce a room of people and find the faults in the sinuous movements of their interactions, see who is merely playing The Game and who is truly innocent, he can read them like the pages of a book and see every filthy secret and sin like black ink telling their tale upon their wrists as he shakes their hands.

 

So naturally, he doesn't understand why his hands are shaking so hard. Why his heart is pounding a mile a minute in his chest, flooding him with unnecessary adrenaline and sharpening everything to a pin-point in front of him. The palpations are a wild, heady rhythm, like the beginning to a speeding violin piece destined to fall apart. Breaking to pieces inside of him and going to Hell as he comes to realize his hands have still not let go of the figure in his lap.

John.

Right.

That's why he's afraid.

_**John.** _

 

The Army Doctor struggles to move, flails awkwardly in the Detective's grip. His own heart still pounds from the surge of adrenaline from before, and his eyes squint against the harsh glare of the lamp they lie under in the dark. Those blue irises are wincing with the intensity of it, but also marvelling at the dark halo of curls above him. Hopelessly relieved they are still there, that the man before him is _alive_ and that he's _okay_ and _Christ his arm ached._ As if sensing his discomfort but unwilling to release him, Sherlock merely adjusts his grip on him, the strange bear-like embrace he's taken to engulfing John's smaller frame almost entirely. Rolling his eyes slightly, the man forces Sherlock's chin up from it's tucked position against his own chest, panting slightly with nerves and the feeling of warmth from another body pressed against his own.

He tries again to disentangle himself in vain.

 

“Sherlock, I'm _fine_.”

 

The Detective however doesn't seem to hear him. He rocks slightly as his grip only tightens, constricting John and bruising his already sore ribs. His deep baritone mumbles against the crook of his neck, and Sherlock is unsure of whether he is talking to himself or if he means to let the words slip out.

They sound shell-shocked.

Hollow.

Numb.

 

“He could've killed you.”

 

_John Watson: Dead._

 

His Mind-Palace freezes over.

Shuts down.

Erases that possibility.

_**No.** _

_**Delete.** _

 

Unwillingly, John looks over at the huddled mass in the alleyway, reflecting not for the first time at how the silvery gun that lies abandoned on the road should really be unloaded. His knuckles clench tightly together like coiling scales as he recalls in vivid detail how they had wound up like this. His gasping breaths remind him painfully of his own fear.

John did not scare easily.

He had seen comrades die while spitting up their own internal organs.

He had seen children being used as sandbags to keep from getting shot.

He had spent nights alone in a dark desert with only the stars to guide him, and he had managed to find beauty in the bleak world of the unpopulated and neglected parts of Afghanistan. Yet John had been afraid. In some ways, the bravery of the blogger was larger than even the bravery of the Great Detective. He always chased after that fearless black coat, even though he was smaller. Even though he wasn't as brilliant. Even though compared to Sherlock Holmes he was a rock next to an emerald sparkling like fire. Even though....

He had been terrified for a split second.

How he had somehow managed to drive Sherlock into little more than a clingy, over-protective ball of barbed-wire. His own voice is hoarse as he responds.

 

“It would've been you if not me.”

 

“ _Come on John! Do try to keep up!”_

_Sherlock sneered as he bound along the pavement, collar flipped up and chasing madly after the dark shadow of the man about five steps ahead of him. Serial murderer, been after him for weeks. Not overly bright but tricky and liked to keep moving. It had taken some fine manoeuvring on Sherlock's part to get him to reveal himself finally. Once he did, there was no way the Detective was going to lose him._

_John struggled to keep up with those impossibly long strides, scowling even as he took his Browning out of it's holster and called after the elusive figure._

 

“ _Damn it Sherlock slow down! He's bloody armed!”_

 

_He had been tetchy. Only a few hours before he and the Detective had gotten into a row. Not their usual fighting either, it had approached dangerous levels of animosity. What they had been fighting about, now that was difficult to remember. Something about one of his experiments probably. Like a blurred painting it faded in contrast to it's unimportance. As a result John found himself not keeping as close of an eye on Sherlock as he normally would._

_A part of him was sick of chasing after him, angry that as usual he never bloody listened._

_Oblivious to the world around him so long as it wasn't part of The Game._

 

_He should have ran faster._

_Should have been more careful._

_Should have told **Sherlock** to be more careful._

_Should have made sure he **listened.**_

 

_He had watched him round the alley, coat tail flying behind him. Somehow he had known. In that instant as he saw that tall figure bound into where he could not see him, John's heart leapt into his mouth and he did the only thing he could think of. His heels had dug in harder against the pavement, anger forgotten, and he leapt into the alley and pushed that coat's shoulder._

_Hard._

 

_Which was fortunate, because upon being cornered in a dead end alleyway, the serial killer seemed to remember he had a gun and had pointed it straight at Sherlock's head._

_The bullet whizzing a breath of an inch past John's skull had been the last thing he heard before he hit his head on the narrow brick wall and blacked out._

_When he had woken, the serial killer wasn't going to be going anywhere any time soon._

 

_Apparently, neither were they._

 

John is broken from his thoughts by the Detective's gruff voice.

It quakes ever so slightly at the ends.

 

“You are _never_ to do that again. Do you understand? _Never._ ”

 

Ever so carefully; John turns so that he can face Sherlock, twisting about so he can get a better look at the Detective's face. He tries to read what's going on behind the mask of calm that blocks him, defends him from everything. The soldier's gotten pretty good over the years of slipping under that fence, and what he sees makes his breath catch just a little.

Gently, he reaches over and brushes his hand against the pale one that's clenching and unclenching beside it, smoothing it's agitated movement down with soothing circles. And though their relationship is not one that has many pet names or publicly affectionate moments, he leans forward and pecks Sherlock lightly on the lips, feeling the tension leave the man's shoulders and shudder into compliance.

 

When they break apart, The Detective admits what's tearing apart his mind, rendering him to trembling like a newborn kitten in a cold wind. His blue-green eyes are pained.

 

“I was.... concerned that the last thing we would have done is fought..... is that normal John? To be......”

 

He trails off, unable to say the word.

_Afraid._

 

He did not fear.

Yet he had feared that moment, when he had seen John's body, lifeless on the ground.

Like a marionette abandoned with its strings torn apart.

He cannot verbalize the terror that had shot through him.

Cannot speak of the things he had imagined doing to the man who had dropped the weapon that had felled _his_ John Watson.

Could not describe the possessiveness.

 

The best part is though, he knows he doesn't have to.

Looking into John's eyes he sees the exact same emotions flitting across his features, all directed back at _him._

The soldier's voice is soft in the night as the two wait for the police to arrive.

Tethering Sherlock in place to keep him from flying away, from scattering in a thousand directions and possibilities, reliving the moment and forced to see John collapse again and again in different ways.

His hands covered in blood.

His imagination makes him _want_ to vomit.

 

“ _It's okay.”_

 

John says, and even though it's not Sherlock lets him say it and doesn't correct him.

Doesn't make a move to stop him as he knits his fingers into the collar of his coat and smiles reassuredly.

His touch is like a salve to the humming in the Detective's limbs, the trembling that threatens to end him.

"You are still never to do that again."

 

He repeats, comfirming his point even though he loathes repetition.

And willingly, John agrees. His own voice is warm and reassuring in the dim glow of the light.

"I won't if you won't."

 

Sherlock relaxes infinitesimally. He tries not to let John know how shaken he really is as his low voice rumbles in his ear.

"Good."

Fear.

Sherlock Holmes is not afraid.

At least not afraid for his own sake.

He is night and cigarette smoke.

Moonlight and blood.

And John is Sun.

Warmth and honey.

Sweet and sour, put together.

Side by side, they are unafraid.

Together, only together, they are fearless.


End file.
